


Marked

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 01:24:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11681106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Legolas is totally smart and mature.





	Marked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ktime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktime/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for ktime427’s “20. [matching shirts] Kili/Legolas” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/163120603835/prompt-list-4).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s the middle of the night when the knock sounds on his door, and Legolas knows that both because of the lack of light in his dark chambers and from how tired he still feels. Under normal circumstances, he could stay awake for days on end, even after a long ride or a tense journey through the forest.

But it seems a single dwarf can wear him out harder than any combat could, and for once, he would’ve dearly liked to sleep in. He closes his eyes and wills the person on the other side of his door to go away. The knock persists, and Legolas gives a little groan—for the messenger to wake their prince, it must be terribly important.

With a languid yawn, Legolas slips his feet over the side of the bed, slinking out to the polished wooden floor, cold against his soles. It isn’t until he’s ducked out from beneath the canopy that he remembers to turn back, tossing the blankets up across his lover and tucking them into place. It’s likely only a servant—Feren or perhaps Galion—but it wouldn’t do for _anyone_ to see the handsome figure lying in his bed. They would feel obligated to report the sighting to his father, and Legolas would never hear the end of it. Kíli, a true dwarf through and through, lightly snores right through his own covering, completely unperturbed by being swamped from head-to-toe in the green duvet. 

A third knock comes louder, harsher, and now Legolas walks swiftly over. He tries to wipe the sleep from his eyes as he does so, but another yawn still clings to his throat. Parts of him are still sore, still bruised, but in a delightful sort of way, albeit one that makes walking somewhat uncomfortable—he’ll need a few more hours for that to clear away. He could’ve recovered, perhaps, from a single round before retiring, but Kíli came to him early in the evening, and they took each other many times, until they both passed out from exhaustion in a sticky, sweaty heap.

It isn’t until he’s opening the door that it occurs to him how much he must reek of it. But it’s too late. He draws his chambers open, and he freezes at who he sees on the other side. 

His own father gives him a look of irritation—he’s never taken so long to answer his father’s summons before. Thranduil icily informs him, “I came to warn you, ion nín, to be on your guard—one of Thorin’s accursed delegation has been seen wandering the ha—”

But he stops suddenly short, eyes trailing down Legolas’ chest, and it takes Legolas one sleep-addled second to realize what’s wrong. 

He looks down his own body and abruptly remembers what he wore to bed—or rather, what he was wearing when he and Kíli last went at one another, too exhausted afterwards to change. His long torso is covered only in a simple tunic, cutting off mid-thigh, no tights or trousers beneath. The tunic is a earthy beige colour, embroidered with many distinctly Dwarven patterns, and an image of the Lonely Mountain painted on the front. It matches the shirt Kíli arrived in—a gift between friends, he’d said, though Legolas knows that wearing matching clothes implies a much stronger bond than _friendship_. 

And his father, possessing a near perfect memory, will surely remember where he saw the tunic before. Legolas only wishes the torches in the hall were a little dimmer. He doesn’t know what to say, though he can feel his cheeks heating self-consciously. 

Thranduil bluntly asks, “What are you wearing?”

Legolas answers, “Clothes.” And then he tells himself that he’s a grown adult capable of dressing himself, and that’s really none of his father’s business. So he quickly shuts the door in his father’s face, then hurriedly drags a chair in front of it before the Elvenking starts shouting like a dwarf.


End file.
